A Wolf and his Boy, Daggerwood, December 14, 1010
There were no songs for them, no one but me to remember their names and deeds. I had failed them. If given another chance, I would fail them again, I believe. I would coddle myself in warm facades and drink and smoke and play merry with brides of other men. I would forget them because I could not bear to remember them. But I could never forget the Wolf. ……… “So,” I said to Dayr. “This is it.” “Indeed it is, Sin,” he said. His large frame resisted as I pulled the straps of his plate armor tight. Black steel etched engravings of Húrin’s prose reflected the lofty title that Dayr held: Captain of the Second Legion. He was a tall, handsome man with love unending for his soldiers. Every Darkmoon knew of the kindness of Dayr and noted it was second only to his ferocity on the field of war. He bore no scars; no one had the chance to give him any. “I wonder,” he said, brushing his blonde hair from his golden eyes, “will my dutiful squire save some of the Wolf for me?” I laughed. “I doubt otherwise, sir. I’ll be sure to stay well and clear away from you while you hack that mutt to pieces.” Dayr frowned and caught my eyes. “He is no mutt, Sin. He may be a sinner but he was once a Guardian of this world. It is nothing more than a shame that he must die.” He fitted his helmet upon his head with certainty. “But die he must.” The Darkmoon Saints had traveled south through the forests of Daggerwood. A brief alliance with Viyava of the eastern Wood Elves allowed us safe passage through her territories. The usual horrors of Lunafell were kept at bay by keen Elven eyes, allowing our number to descend upon our target’s lair with no casualties. Now, at the dawn of our battle, the beast awaited us. He did not run, he did not ambush. He challenged us fairly, and we would do the same. “I am counting on you, Sinthaster,” Dayr said. “This will be the greatest test the Second Legion has ever faced. If even one Darkmoon does not fight, we will not see victory.” “I swear on my life…” He cut me short with a hand on my shoulder. He stood a head taller than I. “Do not swear on your life, Sinthaster. Swear on mine, and I will swear on yours; we are brothers to the end.” I gleamed at the love of my captain. “On your life, Dayr, I will fight to the end.” ……… I could not feel my face amidst the whips of frozen gale. Even in the hole I now cowered in, the wind wound deep and found the means to break against my cracking skin. I could not stay here. I would die. The hole was wet and my clothes were stained with sweat and my own urine. I had to leave and face the demon that awaited me. I hoisted my small, sopping frame from its tomb and began feeling my way towards the entrance to the cave. Light peppered my vision through black icicles as I approached the mouth of the hollow. Before stepping into the snow-covered vale I felt for my sword on my hip; still there. I had dropped my spear whilst running, I was thankful I still had my sidearm, even though I knew what little help it would actually be. I stepped into the light. My fears were well warranted; Darkmoon bodies lay hewn into chunks as far as snow fell. Blood-soaked armor and the stench of death were all that awaited me out here. I felt my muscles loosening in dread; had I any fluid left within me it would have spilled down my leg once more. I began walking out among the corpses; they stared at me with lifeless eyes forever frozen in fear. The entirety of the Second Legion was dead, save for me. I touched the crescent moon emblazoned on my shoulder and shuddered. I did not deserve this mark. What honor did a coward merit? “Sin…thaster…” I heard. I spun on my heels and locked eyes with one of my sisters-in-arms; Lhoss of Brill, a woman of hard honor 12 years my senior. I ran to her side and inspected her wounds. Deep lacerations trailed up her torn armor like crags. Blood boiled forth and stained my gloves as I held her closer. “Sin, you’re alive,” she said with a wet rasp. “How?” I choked up. I could feel my guilt betraying me even as my eyes strained to remain locked with hers. “I was afraid, Lhoss. I saw the beast and I…” I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t tell her that I broke formation and ran. I heard the monster behind me even then, ripping apart those who fought when I could not. She placed her hand on my shoulder. Even after losing so much of her lifeblood her grip was strong and caring. “You can still end this, Sinthaster. The Wolf is nigh; stay downwind and approach from the flank. It is weak and without vision. You can still end this.” She placed her spear in my hand. Even in death she clung to her martial mantra. “Go now, Sinthaster of Arkrest… bring Judgment to this den of death. May the Silent Sword of Blackest Night...” Our hymn. "Keep bright the longest day," I finished. “Lhoss, I can’t leave you, not like this." She ignored me. "May Húrin's hand make right my path, and choose where I shall lay..." '' I sat there, watching her stony face. She was beautiful, for one so worn and rugged; the way an old tree or ancient mountain may have been. Her eyes looked upwards, as far above as eyes could see. Was she even hearing me? "Lhoss, please," I said, sliding my hand into hers to reassure her. Her grip tightened; still strong. She seemed to compose herself, hearkening back to the Lhoss that once made me stitch her gambeson for mispronouncing "Húrin". “You fucking ass," she said, spitting blood into the snow, "kill the Wolf. I’m not getting any more dead and your whimpering certainly isn't the last thing I want to hear in this bloody-damn world.” “Lhoss, there’s still time…” She pressed her mud-caked boot into my chest and heaved me off of her. “The hammer fell, the Great Bell rung,” she said. “If you love your order, if you loved Dayr, then you will do this. A coward can still be a hero.” She knew I had hid. She knew I had let my brothers die, and yet even now she trusted me. Her eyes burned, but it was not with hatred that she viewed me now. She knew my fear; she was, after all, about to die. I saw tears forging lines down her blood-drenched face. Her pale skin and red-hewn hair began to dull against the backdrop of bodies but her eyes were more alive than I had ever seen them. “Go.” She slumped back into the snow, her body propped against another Darkmoon’s tangled corpse. “I won’t be going anywhere, don’t worry,” she said with a half-smile. My hands tightened around the spear. She had paid her dues. Now it was my turn. ……… Sirfung the Great White Wolf of Daggerwood. He had been our mark. Once a bastion of hope and light the beast had succumb to the latent evil of Lunafell and the taint of Ulghiant. His journey down the path of darkness would culminate with his transformation into a Demon, a being of pure rage and power. Our task was to terminate him before that came to pass. The entire Second Legion, 100 strong, broke against the Wolf in his dominion like waves upon the rock. Now only one remained. I entered the clearing I was told the Wolf inhabited. Our strongest men and women had fought him here to the death. Their gore now decorated the trees and branches. My eyes darted between the hulking white form of the beast and the intestines that dangled from a nearby pine. I imagined him flinging my brothers into the trees like meat-soaked dolls. I was more afraid than I thought possible. The Wolf was breathing laboriously; pikes and arrows jutted from his crimson-caked fur. I could feel the earth swell below my feet with every breath he took. I readied my spear. I had approached as quietly as the snow would allow; I would close the last 30 feet in a sprint and ram the weapon into its hide. My other options were few; fire one arrow (then die), use my sword (and die sooner), or run. I would not run again. I was in position. Lhoss’ spear was firm in my frostbitten hands. On the count of three. One… Two… “I can hear you, Darkling…” I froze. The beast had spoken. I quivered in dread; everything below my groin went numb. The giant form shifted and rose. It turned and, for the first time, I clearly saw the face of a deity. Sirfung, the White Wolf of Daggerwood, swelled before my insignificant form. My spear stood 8 feet into the air afore me; it was not half the height of the Wolf. He spoke slow, calmly. “Would you raise your spear against me? I can promise you, Darkling, I can fight yet.” It was then that I noticed the degree of damage Sirfung had endured. He had defeated our force, ‘twas true, yet we had also done considerable harm to him. His underside bled freely from reservoirs of life force that were seemingly without end. I saw the sword of Dayr of Westhome buried deep into the neck of the Wolf. My captain’s sword. Dayr himself was nowhere to be seen. I had presumed him dead the moment I had run. The most grievous wound, however, was bore upon Sirfung’s face. The Wolf’s good eye had been gouged out during the attack; an arrow shaft in the left and a large gored crag running through the socket of the right, presumably lost some years earlier to the dragon, Ulghiant. He was without vision. “Do not test me, Wolf!” I shouted in false confidence. “You are without sight, I will surely have the victory!” Sirfung spit out a gurgled laugh. Blood poured from his mouth with each chortle. “Do you think I am a fool, man-thing? You are not the first coward to make an attempt on me; I began this fight with one eye and I will finish it with none; had your Dayr captain not marred me so not one spear would have found its mark on my hide!” He seemed… spiteful. Angry. Traits I supposed one becoming a Demon must have and yet still, it was marred by sadness. Were I not so terrified of him I may have felt sympathy. “It would seem, however,” Sirfung resumed, “that this was the only proper conclusion to my watch. I was poisoned; my ether was made of Húrin’s steel. And now, without my eyes…” He took a step towards me. “I can see for the first time in a hundred years.” “Not one more step, wolf!” I barked. The wind roared in an untamed squall; Sirfung lunged at me and ripped the spear from my hands with his incredible jaws. He bit the shaft in twain before tackling me into the ground. I gasped as air was pounded from my lungs; I was on my back before I had even the time to blink. “At least,” Sirfung said with a wheeze, “your captain was made of something stronger.” He circled me now. I felt everything going white, my heart beating into my throat and vomit threatening to drown me. This was it; I died for nothing. I saw the faces I had let down: my father and mother, my friends in Arkrest, the brothers and sisters of my order… I felt a thud behind me that rocked my bones. I leaned and saw that Sirfung had lain down, muzzle resting within a finger’s width of my head. His breath was fire on my scalp. I turned slowly, expecting death to blind me in a dazzling flourish. Sirfung had no such intent, however. He melded into the field of white, his eyes at peace and locked with mine. Our breathing slowed to a crawl. “Darkling,” he said, “I will offer you this barter.” I felt myself nod in affirmation, my body still wet and numb. “I will let you live,” he said again, his voice a deep, throbbing drum, “in exchange for two things. Hear my last words upon the face of this world and remove these instruments of pain from my body. They are most uncomfortable and I do not wish to greet Unquala with my hide marred by war.” I don’t know why I felt so compelled, yet there I was, pulling arrows from the massive Wolf and throwing them back into the field of slaughter. Wooden pikes splintered into his leathery skin and matted fur. I found myself prying my blackened fingers deep into the warm pockets of flesh to remove our burning Darkmoon steel. Sirfung would die. There was no cleric in Lancerus that could undo what we had done to him here. In his final moments I would at least relieve him of some of the pain of this world. My fingers fell next upon the arrow shaft buried in his eye. “This may hurt, my lord.” His laugh thrummed like an earthquake. “It won’t hurt more than it did going in, Darkling.” I grasped the arrow and gently twisted. The wood spun slightly in the wound; good news for the both of us, as this meant the arrow wasn’t lodged into bone. I ran my fingers along the shaft and followed it deep into the warm meat of Sirfung’s face. I felt a part of myself being lost to this experience, something wanting to escape my body and leave me a changed man. I brought my fingers against the steel tip of the arrow. Sirfung’s blood may have already soaked the arrow-gut to the point where removing the arrow may leave the head behind. I had to pull from the base. I removed my dagger and pressed it deeper into the gore. Sirfung growled in pain, my stomach churning in empathy. Rending the wound slightly larger I managed to fit my dagger underneath the arrow’s head. Sirfung’s once healthy eye now twitched as crimson-black gravy bubbled out between the gaps of the eyelids. With as delicate as I could manage I weaned the arrow out of the putrid mess and flung it behind me. Blood boiled free from the violent wound. Only one left. I walked around Sirfung’s head to his neck, all the while admiring the sheer size of this demigod. Even with him laying down my eyes could not see over the top of his frame. At the base of his neck I saw the sword of Dayr of Westhome, Captain of the Second-Legion of the Darkmoon Saints. The ivory finish of the handle and weaving purple etching was besmeared with blood of unknown origin. The weapon was buried deep. With both hands on the shaft I struggled against the weapon. I braced one boot against Sirfung and pulled with my meager weight. Sirfung howled. I howled. With one great heave I yanked the blade free from its muscular prison. The longsword dropped to the snow with a thud. Blood spewed onto my face and clothes as Sirfung shuddered in agony. “It is done,” I said after a beat. My legs were weak; so much blood. I felt my head grow light. Instinct forced my body to wretch away from Sirfung as my stomach unloaded itself up through my throat and unto the ground. I soaked the field in my sickness. “What is your name, human?” Sirfung hummed, his lips drenched in bile. I wiped my mouth with my wet glove. “Sinthaster. Sinthaster of Arkrest.” “Come before me, Sinthaster of Arkrest, for there is much to be said.” ……… Lhoss was dead. I had come back to her side after gaining the trust of Sirfung. She had passed during my interactions with him. One more soul upon my shoulders. I returned to the Wolf, then. We talked of many things there in that clearing. I felt the darkness leave him more and more with each passing hour. Despite his injuries he seemed to stall for death; there were things he needed to tell me. He made it plainly clear that I was not his first choice for such knowledge. He much would have preferred an Elf or even a man not so scrawny as I. By firelight and moon-glow we talked of tales of souls long passed. He spoke of his sojourn through the world and worlds beyond. He told me that man is both weak and mighty; his battle against Ulghiant would have been for naught had Byrin not been there to aid him. The scar upon his left eye was courtesy of Ulghiant, he said. Good to know the legends were true after all. He spoke of Elves and Demons. His love for Yvanri. But it was not the things of the past that he needed to deliver unto me. It was events to come. “Sinthaster,” he said by dying firelight, “have you heard the whispers of the end of our Age?” I sat across from him now, all fear gone from my body. The Demon he would have become was now dead and gone; I had the honor of witnessing the unmarred soul of Sirfung as he should have been. “I have heard little of such things but what I have heard… concerns me. The scholars and seers of our order whisper of something called the Godswalk. They say the Veil will be torn and magic will return.” “Your scholars are wise for beings so short-lived,” Sirfung said. “The Godswalk is the event that will forever alter the world of Ura. It is soon to begin.” “What begins the Godswalk, my liege?” Sirfung smiled. “The death of a Guardian of Ura.” I felt my eyes break from his. Shadows danced on the snow afore me. His death was the beginning. “What is the Godswalk?” I asked after a beat. “A trial of god and man,” the Wolf hummed. “The shackles of the Veil will be lifted; this will allow for The Seven and their consorts to come upon the face of this world and attempt to reclaim their Thrones. So too will enemies of light come and make ready their plans for corruption and sin.” “Mortal forms? The Seven themselves?” Sirfung’s blinded eyes closed in somber recollection. Then his voice echoed a hymn the likes my ears will never hear again. ''“Some have already come; the First Elves guard the Life Giver, their protector, deep within their halls. His form is unto power, regality unbound. Both Man and Elf will need him. He will be contested. He will be fierce. He will be the fire that cleanses. '' ''Also, too, the Wise Watcher waits. He is here, keen to all things, though he is unseen to most. None know his plans, not even I, for he is the mystery which binds all things. Of those yet to come, first from the cradle of Arn, death will be born. In pale flesh bound, her power dimmed, but her champion steadfast. She will fight and claim the South, marching to her destiny to the North. Through blood-soaked eyes she sees her throne, marred by Chains and Forsaken vows. Blood will fuel her armies. Freely from her feet it shall flow. Second, from the East, a power shall rise. It shall not be contested, only slowed, as the Godswalk manifests in serpentine flesh. Chaos shall be sewn; blood will be spilled; only the strong shall linger. Allies strange shall be rallied, alliances formed. Only under the Whitefang shall these alliances hold. Third, from the North: to contest the Eastern serpent, a man of power shall conspire within grand White Walls. He will be tested, as the Serpent already has plans to undo his coming. His allies will be many, for his spirit is strong in the ways of peace and war. Last, the Just pair. I know nothing of their coming; they are too far from my dying eyes.” Rain began to fall upon our ghostly forms as Sirfung finished his prose. I took a moment to let the weight of his words fuel my imagination. The Seven would return not as gods, but mortals. “What can I do to aid them, Sirfung?” He smiled at the coward’s sincerity. “Stay alive. Bring this message to the people of Lancerus but only those you trust. The Godswalk will start as a whisper before it culminates into the wildfire it is destined to become. Build your allies, cleanse your enemies. Do not let the Seven tear each other apart, for they do not yet know the forms of one another.” He solidified our rapport by gesturing me to come closer to him that I may be shielded from the freezing rain. His fur enveloped me in warmth. “Your Darkmoon brethren are long to find you, Sinthaster. It will be some time before they discover this field of slaughter. You will not be able to make the journey home alone, nor can you stay here without aid.” “What am I to do, my liege?” “You must eat of my flesh, Sinthaster.” I gawked in horror. “Sirfung, I could not possibly! You are divine, how am I worthy of such a grotesque thing?” “I would not have you eat of the blood of your brethren, nor are you in shape enough to hunt. In my weakness I cannot hunt for you but I can offer you sustenance of the purest form. When I pass this realm my body will be your food and your shelter. My blood shall slake your thirst, my meat shall feed your own, my bones shall keep you dry.” “Should I…” I motioned towards the dying embers of the flame nearby. “Do not cook this body of mine, for fire shall cleanse the divine and leave you with not but the meat of a beast. In purest form it shall sustain you until your Order arrives.” He looked to the heavens, his blinded finally able to see the smiling face of Unquala. “Sleep now, Sinthaster, and dream of a better sojourn.” I yielded to his whims. I felt the embrace of weariness and could fight it no longer. I shut my eyes and buried my head into the fur of Sirfung, breathing in the scent of snow and blood and smoke. Only one of us would awake at next light. ……… It would be six days before the scouting party from the Third Legion found me. Lin Soraus led the advance; she was a lieutenant in the Third Legion. She was also Dayr’s lover. She found me first, gnawing on the stripped carcass of what was once Sirfung the Great White Wolf. I was drenched in cold blood with manic eyes. Even as I knew my saviors had come I felt great shame. She could not have known I had survived due to cowardice, yet I felt as if the label was branded into my forehead. She could not believe that I had survived and that Dayr, whose sword lay by my side, had not. She never would. Other Darkmoon soon arrived to aid me. My wounds were few so I was left unattended wrapped in Gildorian furs while the others began the laborious process of burying the fallen. 99 Darkmoon bodies went into the ground, Unquala’s embrace never colder. Sirfung was burned. The fire squealed like a howling wolf. They called me Wolfeater that day. Because I had been Dayr’s squire and only surviving member of the Second Legion I was made its new captain. I accepted the position with false pride and sinful ceremony. I had joined the Darkmoon to erase the death of one. Now I bore a title for the death of one hundred. My guilt was a burden no wine or woman could drown, yet I would try. Category:Character lore